


The Closet that Started It All

by AngeNoir



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dominance Struggle, Frottage, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Touch-Starved, relationship beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 02:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: Napoleon could lie in a multitude of ways, to a multitude of people, many trained in the art of identifying and sniffing out lies, so he made it a point to never lie to himself. He was painfully aware of his shortcomings and his weaknesses, but he figured so long as he kept up his bluff, fooled the people he needed to fool, he had no need to worry.So he didn’t lie to himself about how many times he fantasized about those large hands, that thousand-yard stare trained on him and him alone, that growling voice purring his name – or, even, the word ‘cowboy’ or ‘American’ roughly rasping from those too-pink lips.Napoleon was determined to ignore his attraction to Illya Kuryakin. Until, of course, chance happens to reveal his attraction is not as one-sided as he had originally thought...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arithanas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/gifts).



> I really hope this is okay; I couldn't access your letter? So I followed the tags

Napoleon could lie in a multitude of ways, to a multitude of people, many trained in the art of identifying and sniffing out lies, so he made it a point to never lie to himself. He was painfully aware of his shortcomings and his weaknesses, but he figured so long as he kept up his bluff, fooled the people he needed to fool, he had no need to worry.

So he didn’t lie to himself about how many times he fantasized about those large hands, that thousand-yard stare trained on him and him alone, that growling voice purring his name – or, even, the word ‘ _cowboy_ ’ or ‘ _American_ ’ roughly rasping from those too-pink lips. Napoleon knew exactly what the Russians thought about men even the slightest bit … _crooked_. Bent. Queer. Gay.

Napoleon had heard all those slurs thrown at him, heard worse, had survived by luck more than anything else. He knew it wasn’t as if Americans were any more accepting, and he couldn’t exactly speak from the moral high ground. Still, he didn’t even risk it. Didn’t even need to speak of it, after all, since Kuryakin was so focused on Gaby.

And really, the three of them made a perfect team. They worked together seamlessly as is. They didn’t need any further complications, or any problems. That’s what this would be, after all – a problem, between him and Kuryakin.

Illya Kuryakin was already so twisted up, so damaged and abandoned and _broken_ – Napoleon would actively try to buy or smuggle small Russian treats for the man. He needed some small level of comfort. The man’s very apartment was a crime against humanity.

 _Anyway_ , the problem was simply this: Napoleon didn’t want to create a problem. So he kept that part of him just as quiet as he always did, didn’t fantasize (much) about Illya Kuryakin, the Red Peril, and everything worked out just fine.

Just. Fine.

Which was why, when Napoleon ( _accidentally_ , Kuryakin, honestly, it wasn’t as if you were any better at breaking into safes without setting off all the alarms) missed one alarm – some innovative type of pressure sensor, apparently, which honestly made sense but was also something Napoleon had been unaware of – _anyway_ , when the alarm went off, the two of them instantly realized that, this deep in the compound, there was no way they could escape without getting caught.

And this was how in tune they were with one another – they hardly needed a word. They simply dashed for the nearest broom closet that was also the closest to a window. They knew, after all, that Gaby was outside in the getaway vehicle, that she could provide a distraction that would allow them to escape – it was simply a matter of time. Minutes, maybe.

So here they were.

In a broom closet.

Pressed up against one another.

The way they had run, after all – Kuryakin had barreled forward, a crazy, inhuman _machine_ (that shouldn’t make Napoleon hot, it _shouldn’t_ ) that had crammed his tall, not overly-muscled but definitely very-well-defined body into the tiny closet, and Napoleon had ended up facing the solid door, his backside pressed from shoulders to buttocks against Kuryakin’s very nice, firm, hard front.

There was, of course, nothing he could do. No way he could move, not without risking knocking against the wall – the alarm had been cut, and while there were running feet in the hallway, Napoleon would not risk that sound covering any sound he made because he was trying to stifle his arousal – and so he simply dropped his head ever so slightly forward, leaning it against the wood of the door, trying to breathe slowly and calmly in the face of this damned temptation. He had to remain…

Kuryakin’s line of heat shifted minutely, and one of the mops rustled.

Napoleon half-turned his head – there wasn’t a lot of room, and while he could turn, he’d push Kuryakin into the frankly unstable-looking shelving unit straining against the confines of the back wall – to see Kuryakin biting his lip, eyes closed.

For a brief, terrifying, worrying second, Napoleon was certain that Kuryakin was going to have one of his fits of rage. While he and Gaby had perfected a routine with dealing the rages – which mostly involved soothing words and gentle touches to the back of Kuryakin’s wrists, when they could reach them – a rage right now would be _highly_ counterproductive. Furthermore, the unfairness of it was that because of exactly who and what Kuryakin was, he’d probably get away even _if_ they did alert the enemy to their presence, but Napoleon would almost _certainly_ be the one left at the end to be captured and tortured until Gaby and Kuryakin could rescue him. He had already been rescued _twice_ in the past three months; he didn’t want another tick in his column.

But then Kuryakin shifted again, and that was – that was a pretty, pretty impressive, ahem, _length_ making itself known against Napoleon’s already highly sensitized buttocks and inner thigh.

Kuryakin was getting _aroused_.

Careful inspection over his shoulder revealed that Kuryakin not only was biting his lip, his cheeks were flushed and his breathing the slightest bit shaky. He was leaning infinitesimally closer, and then almost reflexively leaning back, creating a barely-there swaying motion that fascinated and tantalized Napoleon.

Because Kuryakin looked the very _picture_ of longing.

Before Napoleon could figure out what this meant in the larger picture – and what it meant, specifically, to his fantasies and desires – another alarm was going off, and then Kuryakin was reaching past Napoleon – and _shivering_ when his arm slid across Napoleon’s chest – to open the door. “That is Gaby,” he said roughly, not meeting Napoleon’s eyes. “We must go.”

And, well, Napoleon didn’t necessarily have to deal with this right now, considering that they were going to go back to the same hotel, to their rooms no more than a few steps across a hallway from one another, and this could be brought up in much more… _amenable_ environments than the cramped broom closet of some weapons developer’s compound.

Napoleon, after all, was nothing if not a planner.

* * *

 

Napoleon stepped out of the quickest shower in his life – he didn’t want to chance Kuryakin heading to bed, after all, not with the potential of what tonight had revealed. He pulled on nothing but his dressing robe, running the towel briskly over his head before throwing it over the back of the chair in the lounge. Stepping out of the room, he stared at the door of Kuryakin’s room. Drawing in a shaky breath, he squared his shoulders. He was going to have this out with Kuryakin, get some answers, because Napoleon had been denying himself for a very long time. If Kuryakin was on the same page as him in this from the beginning—

Well. Napoleon had never denied himself something he wanted strongly, and he _really_ wanted this. Strongly.

With a lick of his lips, Napoleon moved to the door and knocked briskly.

There was no response.

Napoleon narrowed his eyes, because he could _hear_ movement inside. It couldn’t be that Kuryakin was in the bathroom, not with what he could hear so close to the door. So he gathered his nerve one more time and knocked again, insistently.

The door opened a hairline crack, and Kuryakin’s face was there, a towel around his neck, chest shockingly bare and still damp from the shower, loose pants hanging low on his hips, staring at Napoleon.

“We can have this conversation here in the hallway,” Napoleon said as quickly as he could manage, without trying to sound desperate but trying to shove the words out before Kuryakin could slam the door in his face, “or we could have it in the nice privacy of your quarters.”

“We could not have it at all,” Kuryakin growled, but there was something in his voice, something that not only inspired hope in Napoleon but also let him know that this was going to be a different talk than he had been expecting to have with his partner.

Napoleon leaned against the door, just a little, just enough to show his insouciance but also enough to show his insistence on this topic. “I’ll grant you that,” he said genially, “but I feel that it would be better to have this discussion with you before Gaby pries it out of the two of us.”

Kuryakin opened his mouth and then closed it. With a small sigh, he opened the door the rest of the way and Napoleon entered Kuryakin’s room.

Now that he was in the room, of course, Napoleon was not entirely certain how to begin – but he was nothing if not selfish, and he certainly wanted this, especially considering that it was clear Kuryakin also seemed to want this. So he took a few steps into the room and moved to where the scotch sat on the small table.

“What needs to be said, Solo?” Kuryakin said in his low, gravel-like voice.

“Drink?” Napoleon asked, pouring out a second cup and then capping the scotch.

Kuryakin hesitated briefly before hesitantly moving over and reaching for the cup. Napoleon placed it in Kuryakin’s hands – in _Illya’s_ hands – letting skin slide against skin, cataloguing the faint shiver and tremble in his partner’s body. In a low voice, he murmured, “I told myself, of course, that it would be impossible. That my… perversion, my unnaturalness, it was just me. I did not think to even ask, to see, if you harbored any secret liking of me, because it was that far removed from my thoughts.”

Nervously, Kuryakin licked his lips, the glass of scotch frozen in his hands, watching Napoleon like a bird caught in the gaze of a snake.

Napoleon, of course, felt just as nervous, just as scared, but he knew, he could _tell_ , that Kuryakin had not, under any circumstances, had this type of discussion with anyone before. That left the onus of discussion and conversation on Napoleon – and he would have no trouble with it, if he could get it out in the right manner, and present his case to Illya without setting off the other man’s rage.

Or hurting him, which was actually possible to do for all that Kuryakin liked to pretend he was utterly unaffected by anyone and everyone.

So he took a sip from his cup, and then set it down on the table and stepped into Kuryakin’s space, eyes locked on Illya’s gaze. Ever so carefully, he reached out to cup Illya’s elbows, to feel his partner, Illya Kuryakin, tremble even more from the heat of Napoleon’s hands. It was a powerful feeling, an exhilarating feeling, and Napoleon leaned forward.

“When we were in that closet,” he murmured, “you didn’t know what to do.”

Illya’s throat worked, barely, as if he was trying to find something to say but couldn’t.

“Have you any experience in lying with another male?” Napoleon continued to murmur, rubbing small circles against Illya’s forearms.

When it looked as if Illya would drop the drink, Napoleon deftly shifted his grip, took the tumbler from Illya’s hands and set it down. Then he gently tugged, pulling the taller man back to the bedroom. “Typically,” he said, voice low and throaty, “the first step is to get undressed.”

“That much, I know,” Illya snapped, but his voice almost seemed reflexive, as if he knew it was expected for him to bark and so he did. Napoleon did not take offense, and instead let go of Illya to untie the sash of his dressing gown, letting the silken material slide down his arms and bare his undershirt and sleeping pants to Illya’s almost panicked eyes. With a studied nonchalance, Napoleon tossed the robe onto the foot of the bed and then moved to undo the drawstring of his sleeping trousers.

Almost challengingly, Illya tore the towel from his neck and flung it to the floor. With quick, efficient motions he stripped himself of pants and undergarments, and stood trembling in the low lamplight, as if daring Napoleon to say anything.

Not that Napoleon had anything to say. Instead, he was drinking his fill of Illya’s scarred, sleek body, the well-defined muscles trembling – from fear or excitement, Napoleon was not sure – as Illya watched Napoleon lift his shirt over his head.

Then, almost as if a rage had come over him – only, it wasn’t rage, not really, though it looked close enough to have Napoleon freeze as he tried to figure out what had set Illya off and what could be done to mitigate an anger – Illya threw himself across the room, shoving Napoleon down against the bed, pinning him down. There was something greedy and desperate in his eyes as he held Napoleon’s wrists against the comforter, his chest heaving and manhood slowly gaining rigidity.

Napoleon was not one to lay meekly back and allow his partner control, especially if he suspected he was right, and this was in fact Illya’s first encounter of the male persuasion. Licking his lips dragged Illya’s attention to his mouth, and then he whispered, “You know what I find most interesting, Illya?”

Kuryakin’s first name in Napoleon’s mouth had a startling effect on Illya’s disposition – he almost seemed to freeze, breath coming in stutters, and then he let out a deep, guttural moan, head dropping down so that his lips were scant centimeters from Napoleon’s. “What, cowboy?” Illya murmured hoarsely.

“That you seem to think you have enough experience to lead this encounter of ours,” Napoleon said, almost too sweetly, and before Illya could recognize what Napoleon was up to, Napoleon slipped sideways and _heaved_ , rolling them over so that it was Illya, naked and panting, pressed against the mattress, and Napoleon braced over him, eyes hungry. Napoleon had scars, of course – one did not pursue their line of work without contracting some marks, and even Gaby had her fair share – but Illya’s body put Napoleon’s to shame. Napoleon wasn’t sure where they all came from, but he hoped one day to trace them out, discover the stories behind each and every one.

For now, though, he dropped his mouth to nip at Illya’s throat and lick at Illya’s collarbone. “Imagine, Illya,” he purred against that mouthwatering skin, dropping his hips to let his groin rub tantalizingly against Illya’s almost fully turgid cock, “we could have been doing this for so long. Can you imagine?”

Illya let out a wild keen and twisted like an eel, knocking Napoleon over and nearly rolling the two of them off the bed. Before Napoleon could say or respond in any way, Illya was clawing at Napoleon’s trousers, dragging them and Napoleon’s undergarments off in one rough yank that tore the material and inadvertently aroused Napoleon. “Talk too much, all the time,” Illya growled. “Never stop. Even in bed, you _never stop_.”

“Most partners find that charming,” Napoleon crooned, testing their position and finding that, at this moment, there wasn’t any way for him to reverse their positions again. Instead, he groaned as Illya slotted their cocks together.

But still, Illya’s inexperience was clear, and as much as Illya obviously did not want to be on the bottom, he had no idea how to maintain their forward momentum. It was almost child’s play now to spread his thighs, letting Illya fall into the cradle of Napoleon’s hips, and then hook one leg behind Illya’s back and shove them over. Illya let out a startled moan, and pushed up, but Napoleon, risking his position on top for a brief moment, shifted a hand between their bodies and gripped Illya’s cock.

With almost a keen, Illya’s hands jerked up to grab Napoleon’s shoulders, gripping tightly, and Napoleon knew he’d have bruises there tomorrow. Oddly, that thought did nothing but spur him on, and he panted, “All the filthy things I wish to do with you, and yet none of the materials I need are present.” He smoothed his thumb over the crown of Illya’s cock, smearing the weeping liquid over his fingers before sliding them down to the base of Illya’s dick. “We’ll deal tonight, of course, because there’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight for the rest of the night, but tomorrow – _tomorrow_ , Illya, oh, there are so many things to show you, so many things to do, you would not believe. Lubricant is necessary for men – our bodies naturally reject one another, and so we must force our way in with the aid of manmade materials. I cannot wait to pin you down, splay you open for my cock, to nudge behind these heavy balls with my manhood and feel you yield for me.”

An inarticulate growl tore from Illya’s throat, and then he _surged_ upwards, flipping Napoleon over so that Napoleon’s head was at the foot of the bed, Illya’s hips and thighs spreading Napoleon’s legs, one of Illya’s arms curling under the small of Napoleon’s back to tuck his body tight against Illya’s, their faces and chests pressed close enough that Napoleon could see small flecks of green in those blue, blue eyes focused on him. He could feel scar tissue on Illya’s chest pressed against his abdomen; could follow the small tensing of Illya’s muscles as he fought not to do anything but press Napoleon _down_ and _open_.

“Who is not to say that it will be I spearing _you_?” Illya gasped, breath hot and wet against Napoleon’s ear. Sweat slicked their bodies, even though it was quite cool in the room, and Napoleon’s hand was trapped between their bodies, still clutching Illya’s manhood and absently stroking it.

Napoleon laughed, a soft, breathless chuckle, and then he bit at Illya’s ear – gently, teasingly, temptingly. “I think,” he murmured, letting his voice become arrogant and even a bit smug, “that you would want someone experienced to take you on your first journey into this world. I think you’d want to lie back and let someone else be in control for the night.” He paused, and then bowed his back _just_ so, dragging his cock against Illya’s, letting his free hand slide up Illya’s spine – eliciting a full-body shudder from his Peril – to clutch against Illya’s nape, pull at the delicate hairs there. It was like flipping a switch, watching Illya shudder and go still, head thrown back and neck bared for Napoleon, body beautifully drawn tight and begging for more stimulation. “I think you’d know there’d be chances in the future for you to fight your way to climax with me, but for now it is so much easier to let me draw _le petite mort_ from your willing body.”

With that, Napoleon twisted his wrist, stroking Illya as best he could with nothing but the slick made from his and Illya’s own excitement smoothing the way, biting on Illya’s exposed Adam’s apple, and clutching Illya’s body tight against his own, knees and ankles pressing Illya still, riding out Illya’s short, choppy thrusts and jerks.

A sound like a cross between a growl and a yowl tore out of Illya’s chest in a deep basso wave, and then Illya was succumbing, spilling his release over Napoleon’s lower abdomen and groin, a copious amount that wet Napoleon, soaked into Napoleon’s dark thatch of hair at his groin and even gummed up the trail of hair that arrowed below his navel. Illya, the lucky bastard, had barely any hair to speak of on his chest and lower abdomen; the hair was fine, pale blond, but thickened at his crotch and those curls darkened to a lovely deep amber color with the wetness of Illya’s release.

When Illya’s body was no longer locked in release, when he finally slumped down against Napoleon, gasping for breath, limbs trembling like a newborn foal’s, Napoleon rolled them one final time, pushing his thighs between Illya’s with laughable ease, spreading the blond man and marveling at the beauty stretched out beneath him. Not that he had a lot of time to stare – he was on edge himself, desperate for release, and so all he did was slot his hands against Illya’s hips, slide his cock behind Illya’s balls and use the sticky come that soaked his front to thrust into the space between Illya’s thighs, rubbing himself to completion with shaky arms and gasping lips that could only repeat Illya’s name over and over, a prayer and curse all in one.

Illya let out a soft moan, and lifted his knees ever so slightly, enough to cradle Napoleon’s body, his hands coming to rest on Napoleon’s wrists, his blue eyes filled with easy lassitude, darkened with lust and satisfaction, and the way the lamplight played over Illya’s sweat-dampened hair, over Illya’s powerful muscles and almost too-sweet smile, was enough to push Napoleon over the edge, frozen as he poured his release out between Illya’s thighs. When it was over, he had just enough presence of mind to collapse next to Illya instead of on top of the other man.

He knew, in the back of his mind, that he needed to clean them up. It would be a devil of a time to get themselves clean if the let their shared release harden against their skin. That didn’t change that he was tired and relaxed, that Illya’s hand had come up to stroke up and down Napoleon’s chest and arm. No one touched Napoleon, not really, not unless he was making a calculated move to seduce someone, and it was clear that Illya also marveled at the ability to touch, to explore.

“So,” Illya said after some time.

Napoleon had nearly fallen all the way asleep; Illya’s voice roused him, and he blinked sleepily at the other man. “So?” he slurred, voice rough and deep.

“This is what we tell Gaby?” Illya asked. “That you intend to do this again?”

“ _Many_ times again, if I have my way of it,” Napoleon mumbled. “And Gaby already knows. She’s _Gaby_. She’ll probably be relieved I’m no longer pining.”

Illya let out a soft whisper of a chuckle, barely a breath, before his hand’s movements grew slower, before his hand grew heavier. Napoleon once more was nearly asleep when movement made him blink open blurry eyes to realize Illya was _cuddling_ him, pulling Napoleon tight against his chest, tucking Napoleon into the curve of his body and wrapping himself around Napoleon.

Not that it bothered Napoleon.

Not one bit.

**Author's Note:**

> also I have this small side headcanon that Gaby was tired of Napoleon emoting at her about Illya and Illya emoting to her about Napoleon so she was the one who set off the alarm to make them hide in a small enclosed space for some time to make them realize they had feelings for one another


End file.
